


we're the ones who had it all

by sapphictomaz



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cats, Character Study, M/M, the character death IS the ghosts so take that as you will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22250782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphictomaz/pseuds/sapphictomaz
Summary: The sorcerer Murphy fell in love with a human Bellamy in another lifetime, and is left now with more than his ghost to contend with.Title is from "Let It Be" by Hayley Kiyoko.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/John Murphy
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	we're the ones who had it all

_My love for you shall live forever. You, however, did not._

_-Lemony Snicket, “The Reptile Room.”_

**now;**

The cauldron bubbles and toils and troubles in a way that is ever so irksome. Murphy leans back in his rocking chair with a frown, the old wood _creaking_ under his shift in weight. He was never any good at potions.

Percival, his ancient black cat, crawls over Murphy’s feet. His fur lost any softness long ago, and his bones are now easy to see, but he knows that the cat’s in no pain. Maybe it’s selfish to enchant your cat to live forever, Murphy muses, but then dismisses the thought. He’s well aware that it very much _is_.

Murphy leans back, the open window beside him spilling the cold nighttime air onto his face. It feels nice, he decides, closing his eyes and letting the blood rush to his cheeks in an effort to warm them. Percival skulks away to find a warmer corner somewhere else. The rocking chair _creaks_ again, this time unprovoked. In front of him, the cauldron continues to bubble and spit out burning green liquid. None of this is utopic like it’s meant to be.

With a sigh, he cracks one eye open, his gaze falling on the small wooden table next to him. A glass bowl full of cherries is the only thing on it. Each one of them is a perfect, ruby red, and a small smile spreads over his face. “Ah,” he says, “so _this_ is where you went, then.”

He stays seated because he can, and then holds the bowl in his right hand, delicately grasping just one cherry with his left. The faint light of the moon seems to reflect in its perfectly polished skin, but Murphy’s quick to realize he’s got to be imagining it. 

With all the gusto he can possibly summon on this cold winter’s night, he tosses the cherry forwards, the fruit landing in the middle of the cauldron’s soup with a small _plop_. For a moment, the mixture hisses, and Murphy stirs it once with a wave of his hand. This kind of magic, the kind that comes from inside himself, this is easy for him - it is the moulding of external ingredients and factors that disagrees with him.

The potion that _should_ have turned bright red remains a horrible green. With a resigned sigh, Murphy throws a second cherry into his mouth, and waves his hand once more. The entire potion vanishes without a trace or sound, leaving the black cauldron empty and clean as if it was never used. 

Because he can, Murphy ties the cherry stem together with his tongue, then spits it out, waving his hand once more to have the stem disappear before it even hits the ground. “Bellamy!” he calls, because - well, he can.

In less than an instant, he’s there. 

Every time he sees him is like the first time, Murphy decides, casting a careful eye over the figure. His eyes, hair, skin - they’re perfect, exactly how they were the last time Murphy saw him, exactly how they’re always meant to be. Bellamy’s even smiling, casting such a perfect expression that even a heart as troubled as Murphy’s can be put at ease. But it’s never been right, never been anywhere near the _same_. He’s an outline, a ghost - quite literally, of course. His entire body shimmers a bright blue, and if Murphy tries hard enough, he can look right through him and study the painting on the wall behind him.

Murphy doesn’t like to do this. He knows why, of course, but he’s not about to admit this, not for at least another thousand years. 

Bellamy hovers, stationary, because that’s all that ghosts know how to do, it seems. “Dispose of this,” Murphy says, gesturing vaguely to the now-empty cauldron in front of him. “I think it’s unlucky.”

And he hates it, absolutely _loathes_ how Bellamy’s beaming smile causes his heart to twist and ache in positively the worst way. “Unlucky,” Bellamy says, and while his voice is right, and Murphy knew the word was coming, it’s still horrible to hear. 

“Yeah,” Murphy sighs. “I was _trying_ to make a cherry scented candle, but all it gave me was some acid soup.”

“Acid soup.” If Murphy didn’t know any better, he’d say that Bellamy laughs when he parrots the phrase back, but he supposes this is textbook wishful thinking.

“Yeah. Acid soup,” Murphy says, softly, sad eyes studying Bellamy’s spirit carefully. The ghost just smiles, and then when no further instructions or phrases are given, he leans over and picks up the cauldron, his ghost hands able to touch it only because Murphy wanted him to. Without another word or a look in the sorcerer’s direction, he takes the cauldron to the other room, to do away with it in whatever way he thought best, perhaps the same way that he’d disposed of all the other things Murphy had ordered him to. 

Absentmindedly, he pops another cherry into his mouth. Perhaps it wasn’t that the cauldron was unlucky, he decides - perhaps, to have a cherry-scented candle, one has to remember to put the cherries into the mixture at all.

There’s a metaphor in there somewhere, but he can’t bring himself to care. Instead, he leans back and lets the icy wind bite at his face some more, because he himself is not a ghost - not quite yet.

**then;**

Murphy met Bellamy the way he met all mortals - a result of an advertisement in the newspaper.

The paper was, in Murphy’s opinion, the best invention mortals had ever conceived of throughout all of time. At first, it had simply been a way to reach a broad selection of potential customers, but as time wore on and technology won out, the paper remained able to reach Murphy’s select customer niche. After all, those reading the advertisements in a conventional paper were either desperate or bored, and either of these two criteria were perfect for Murphy’s clientele. 

He was a true sorcerer, and he’d provide magical miracles for anyone willing to pay - but still, it wasn’t exactly the kind of thing he could yell about on the street. He preferred to live alone, in his lighthouse, with only his immortal cat Percival to keep him company. In those days, when clients would come in and out, the cat’s fur was pristine and thick, and Percival would trot around like he owned the place, full of pride and life.

The lighthouse itself was located on an island nearly void of all civilization, with only a pier and some tourist gift stores to entice people to make the ferry trip out there. Locals claimed that the entrance to the lighthouse, just above the rocks, was haunted - Murphy figured this was just because he kept his door locked.

Still, none of this deterred a certain Bellamy Blake from responding to his advertisement - _Need a miracle? Out of options? Contact your local sorcerer today!_ \- and seeking out his services.

“Hello,” Murphy said, opening the door swiftly upon hearing the mortal knock three times, as instructed in the ad. He made a big show of sweeping his cape behind himself as he turned and beckoned the client to follow him into the main room of the lighthouse, and then seated him down on the couch with a glass of water and sat opposite. 

The mortal looked scared. This was, of course, the effect Murphy was going for - when visitors came, he took extra time getting his outfit ready and applying his eyeliner, hoping that his sharp features and piercing gaze would be enough on its own to strike fear and awe in the hearts of all humans. Of course, the massive snake-like tattoo on his cheek and creeping up his nose helped with that, too.

That was the price of being a sorcerer, they said - the magical brand, in whatever form that took, would be there for all to see. There was no hiding for immortals like Murphy. He’d figured out a way to do it, anyways. 

“I need to help my sister,” were the first words out of the mortal’s mouth, and Murphy’s eyes nearly rolled back into his head. 

“Is that so,” he replied dryly, tapping his fingers against the table absentmindedly. “And yourself?”

The mortal looked surprised at that, and had looked up, finally meeting Murphy’s gaze. It was in this moment that Murphy felt truly enraptured, perhaps for the first time in centuries. There was a true innocence about the mortal’s eyes, yet a depth to them as well. This was a person who had seen too many terrible things, yet retained their sense of hope throughout it all. This was a person that others could learn something from, and even more oddly, Murphy’s spirit lifted just being in his presence. “You mean - what I want?”

“How about you start with a name?”

“Oh. I’m Bellamy Blake.”

“And, _Bellamy Blake_ , what _is_ it that you want?” It didn’t escape Murphy’s notice that Bellamy was watching every single one of his actions. It didn’t escape his notice, but he found that he kind of, maybe, actually sort of liked it. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he was quick to answer, “not when my sister’s in trouble.”

“Your sister,” Murphy repeated, “and what is her problem? Is she sick? Got in a bad relationship? Money problems?”

“No, she’s - she’s going to go to prison for a crime she didn’t commit.” Murphy didn’t reply to this, admittedly shocked by the admission. “You want details,” Bellamy continued, filling up the silence. “What happened-”

Murphy held up a hand, silencing him. “No,” he said, “I don’t care about details. What I need to know is this - are you absolutely _sure_ that she did not commit this crime?”

The look in Bellamy’s eyes was so intense, so lit aflame, that Murphy found himself entranced. “Yes. I’m sure.”

“Alright, then.” He didn’t know the motive behind his actions, not then, but Murphy wandered over to a massive cabinet on the left wall, opened it up and rummaged through the belongings, most of them books or bags or bowls of something or other. Finally, he found what he was looking for - a small vial of white, crystalline powder. Without another thought, he handed it to Bellamy, who studied the contents intensely. “You said she was _going_ to prison, yes? As in, a trial is yet to occur?”

“Yeah, the trial’s in a few days.”

“Right. That stuff there is for persuasion. Add it to someone’s water, wait six seconds after they drink it, and then they will be completely susceptible to the next suggestion they hear.”

Bellamy’s brow furrowed. “That’s - that’s very cool, but how does that help me?”

“Well, I don’t know. I wonder what would happen if you ‘suggested’ to the judge that she was innocent? To the jury?”

“ _Oh_. Oh, I see. I - how much for it?”

Murphy studied him for a second, only a second, before he smiled. “No charge. See if it works, first.”

“No, I couldn’t possibly-”

“ _Go_ ,” Murphy said, gesturing to the door, opening it with just a wave of his hand. “Don’t you have a sister to save?”

And with one last grateful glance, Bellamy was gone, out the door. 

**now;**

By the time the sun begins to rise and the air on Murphy’s face warms, he’s gone through the entire bowl of cherries without sleeping a wink. “Bellamy!” he calls, rocking aimlessly in the wooden chair. 

The ghost appears as quickly as ever, standing in front of him with his ghostly arms placed neatly at his ghostly sides. His ghostly eyes stare at him, kind even in death. “Get rid of this,” Murphy says, holding out the bowl. “Smash it to pieces if you want.”

“Want,” Bellamy says, his ghostly voice as ghostly flat as always. In a moment of magic, he takes the bowl, and then leaves, going the same way he did as when he took the cauldron only hours previous. 

“Yeah,” Murphy says, “want.” This time, there’s no one there to reciprocate. 

**then;**

Bellamy had practically ran into the lighthouse as soon as Murphy had opened the door. “It worked!” he shouted, “It worked! The charges were dropped! They found her innocent!”

“That’s good,” Murphy replied, happy for a reason he couldn’t quite fathom, yet trying his best to hide his emotions. 

“So - I owe you,” Bellamy continued. “I don’t understand how you do it, but clearly you _are_ magic, and I’m in your debt.”

“Was there ever any doubt?”

“Well - no. Don’t take it that way.”

“Relax. I’m only kidding.” Bellamy immediately relaxed upon these words, softening Murphy’s hardened heart even more. 

“So - how much do I owe you?”

Murphy sat down, then, across from Bellamy, just as they had before. “You don’t.”

“Please. You saved her life - you saved _my_ life. Let me repay you.”

“It’s fine,” Murphy insisted. “I’m happy that I was able to help you. I’m happy that justice was served, in whatever way that was. Now, go, and be happy with your sister, alright?”

Bellamy let out a breath of wonder, then smiled. “Well - thank you, then. Truly.”

“Anytime.”

“But what’s next for you, then?”

“For me?”

“I get to go and be happy with my sister, and what, you just get left behind alone? Robbed of both your magical product _and_ payment for it? That just doesn’t feel right.”

Percival let out a soft _meow_ at this, as if protesting that Murphy would ever be truly alone, but the sentiment held nonetheless. “Would you really want to do something for me?”

“Yes. Anything.”

“Visit, sometimes.” He has no idea why he’s suggesting this. There was a reason why he found a home in an isolated lighthouse, only seeking out contact with mortals on his own terms, making them come to _his_ home on _his_ island. Murphy’s fine with being alone - alone with Percival. That was fine. 

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean - if you’re fine with that.”

“Yeah, of course I can!”

Murphy’s smile was the most genuine it had ever been.

**now;**

Murphy hasn’t moved from his chair in what feels like days.

“Bellamy,” he whispers into the void, but the ghost appears nonetheless. He wonders if he’s even real at all. “Hold my hand.”

He’ll regret this. He doesn’t like doing this. But he does this, because he can, and Bellamy’s no longer alive enough to stop him. 

“Hand,” Bellamy repeats, then reaches out and grasps Murphy’s in his ghostly one. It feels just like grabbing the wind might feel - powerful enough to move you, but not corporeal enough to stay.

“I miss you,” Murphy whispers.

“You,” Bellamy says.

“Yeah,” Murphy agrees, “that was always my mistake, wasn’t it?”

**then;**

Bellamy started visiting once a month, then once every two weeks, then once a week, and none of these times did Murphy protest to it. 

He’d tell him about the world outside of the island, tell him about the political and environmental crises going on, tell him about all the space exploration going on, how all the countries had never stopped competing with each other. In return, Murphy would share bits of his craft with him, tell him the history of the artifacts he’d kept, tell him stories of his life centuries past. 

Bellamy slept over, one night, and the whole time Murphy felt on edge yet at peace, and he couldn’t explain quite why. Well - no. That wasn’t completely true.

There had been another, once, long, long ago. Her name had been Emori, and she had been beautiful. She’d lived most of her life with him, and the life they had lived had been fantastic. She challenged and inspired him in all the best ways. She brought light to his life, and then she had died, as mortals tend to do.

He felt the way he felt with her when Bellamy came to visit. It scared him, yet excited him in the same breath. 

When Bellamy awoke the next day, the sun was shining on his face and he truly looked like the most angelic being Murphy had ever had the privilege of laying eyes upon. “Thank you,” Murphy had said, feeling something deep inside him reignite - humanity, maybe, or the knowledge of _possibility_.

“For what?” Bellamy had asked, in a voice so tired, and so human.

“Just - nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

**now;**

“Hey, Bellamy,” Murphy calls, and then when the ghost is standing there once more, “what _do_ you do with the things I ask you to get rid of?”

“Get rid of,” Bellamy says, and then he turns and begins to walk away, to the corner of the lighthouse, a spare room that Murphy doesn’t bother using most of the time. Reluctantly, Murphy gets out of the chair and stands, stretching before following the ghost. 

Once he’s at his side, Bellamy turns to the wall, facing a massive cabinet taking up most of the space. With a strangled breath, he realizes he’s looking at the very same one that he found the powder in for Bellamy, the first time, all those years ago. 

The ghost opens the cabinet before Murphy can recover, and when he sees what’s inside it, he gasps and falls to his knees. 

Lined up neatly inside the cabinet are all the things that Murphy’s asked Bellamy to get rid of over the years. There’s so much now that the shelves are chaotic, but it’s _there_ , very much preserved and not disposed of. At the end of the last shelf is the cauldron from earlier today, and a glass bowl placed very neatly inside of it. 

“Get rid of,” Bellamy repeats, more softly than should be possible, and Murphy begins to cry.

**then;**

It all came crashing down far too soon.

Bellamy came running inside the lighthouse, not bothering to knock this time as per usual. Murphy had left the door unlocked for him, but was still taken aback by his sudden appearance - though, importantly, he was not opposed to it. “You’re early,” he said, but Bellamy’s face suggested it was not by choice.

“Murphy,” he said, breathlessly, “do you know what’s going on out there?”

“Humanity, I presume?”

Bellamy let loose one, harsh laugh. “No. Not for much longer.”

“I - what does that mean?”

“Nuclear meltdown,” Bellamy said, and it was then that Murphy noticed his eyes were wet and glazed over with tears. “Nuclear war. It’s all coming to an end. They’re sending shuttles up to space, up to some space station, but they’re not all going to make it.”

Percival trod into the room, walking around and through Murphy’s feet, just as anxious as the sorcerer. “You’re not serious. The whole world? Everywhere will be affected?”

“Look,” Bellamy said, gesturing to the large window, very high up. “The sky. It’s already turning red.”

Murphy’s throat went dry, and for the first time in his lifetime, he felt truly and utterly terrified. “Okay. That’s okay. We can stay here. The lighthouse should be safe, and if it isn’t, I can _make_ it safe.”

“No.”

“It won’t be hard - just a few barrier charms, and maybe a seal of protection, too, just to extra careful.”

“No.”

“Food might be an issue, but I think I can conjure up enough - wait, what?”

“Murphy,” Bellamy said, taking another step to stand right in front of him, and then grabbing Murphy’s right hand in his. “I can’t. I have to be with my family, my sister.”

In a horrible and cruel moment, Murphy wished he hadn’t helped his sister go free of charges. “Bring her here,” he said, but he knew just as well as Bellamy did that once he left, there was no coming back.

“I am sorry,” Bellamy said, his voice soft, his body only inches from Murphy’s. Their foreheads touched, and Murphy’s breath shook. “But I - I needed to say goodbye.”

“Stay,” Murphy pleaded.

“Oh, Murphy, how I wish it was ever that simple.”

“It could be. It could be, with just us, forever. It could be.”

Bellamy didn’t reply, instead drawing his head back only slightly, then using his free hand to tip Murphy’s chin up to meet his gaze. With only a soft smile, he leaned in and kissed Murphy, tenderly yet passionately. 

The moment was over all too quickly, and Bellamy drew away, stepping back. Their hands let go of each other last, and something in Murphy broke as the contact ceased. “Don’t go,” he pleaded. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, and then, “goodbye, Murphy.”

And then, he was gone, and the sky turned red, and he never came back.

**now;**

“Go _away_!” Murphy screams. The ghost doesn’t deserve his words. He screams anyways. 

“Away.”

“I don’t want you here! Get out!”

“Out.”

“I’m _sorry_ that I did this to you, okay? Is that what you want to hear? Leave me _alone_!”

“Alone,” Bellamy says, his voice more forceful, this time, and maybe if Murphy wasn’t so distraught, he could have noticed.

**then;**

The world ended with the _booming_ of several bombs, and Murphy screamed as he thought about all that he had lost.

Really, he did it without thinking about it, but in one moment he was alone, and the next, he’d let out a burst of magic too strong for his own good and Bellamy was standing in front of him. 

Except - it wasn’t Bellamy. It looked like him, moved like him, even spoke like him, but this Bellamy was always missing a piece. “You’re back!” Murphy had said, running forwards to embrace him.

Except, when he had gotten close enough, his arms passed right through him, and all Bellamy said was, “Back,” with a stupid, beaming grin on his face. 

Murphy had heard stories of ghosts - leftover pieces of a mortal’s soul that a sorcerer could summon as servants. They were only capable of responding to commands, and could only repeat individual words or phrases that had just been spoken to them. He’d never done that before, and he hadn’t meant to do it now, but there he was - a ghostly version of the boy who had taught him what love was like. 

It all felt like a cruel, sick joke.

**now, & forever;**

Centuries go by. It’s fine. He’s always been fine.

Somewhere along the line, he lets Percival go in his sleep. The cat had lived too many lives, and Murphy felt too cruel for making it live as long as he would. It had hurt, it had been painful to do, but it had been for the best. 

Enough time had passed that the sky, though still red, was less violent, and Murphy guessed that if there was any type of civilization left, it would have at least started to rebuild itself by now. For many years, he’s battled with himself, debating whether or not he should venture out of his lighthouse. 

And yet, here he is, standing at the open door, a small bag with all the belongings he needs over his shoulder. 

Ghost Bellamy stands at his side. “I’m leaving you here,” Murphy says, firmly, though it hurts to even get the words across.

“Here.”

“I - I loved you. I love you.”

“Love you,” he says, and Murphy’s heart skips a beat, despite it all.

“I hope you find peace. Really, I do. And - thank you. For everything.”

“Everything.”

And, after all those years, he can finally return his last words. “Goodbye, Bellamy.” He takes a step, and then another, and the ghost does not follow.

He’s only a few steps out when a small, black cat approaches him, nuzzling up to his left leg. “Oh, hello,” he says, his heart swelling, memories of Percival locked in his mind. He looks up to the sky, still a hazy red, and decides, “You look like a Bartholomew. How about that?”

Bartholomew seems to take it well, and quickly falls into stride with Murphy as he continues on his trek away from the lighthouse. 

He’s determined not to look back. If he had, he might have seen Bellamy give a final wave, all of his own accord, and he might have seen the ghost vanish into thin air, his services no longer needed on this plane of existence. He might have seen a bright light shoot up from where the ghost once stood up to the sky above, and he might have agreed that Bellamy always was brighter than the stars.

The ground underneath Murphy’s feet cracks, and he breathes in the fresh air, and in this moment, he knows that the melancholy of nighttime is not a requirement to feel. He knows that the journey will not be easy, but it will not be hard, and he knows that he is capable of making it.

When the sun falls beneath the horizon, he knows, somehow, that he’ll look up at the sky, and he won’t feel so alone.

**Author's Note:**

> so like excuses aside i really did not read this one over and did not beta it all i just wrote it in about four hours and threw it up here so i hope it's okay. i hope it's at least something.
> 
> big thanks to the real ones you guys know who you are. couldn't have done it without your support. truly. and if you read this, big love to you as well. i appreciate it.
> 
> feel free to find me on twitter @reidsnora if you like! :)


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